Category: Driving

The great engines whined at a tremendous volume as the race cars came around the turn and then accelerated with maximum throttle. As seen close to the track, the cars became a blur as they whizzed by at over 200 mph. I was 15 rows up in the stands and had a nice perspective view of the turn and the straightaway. On the giant screen in front of me I could see race information and driver’s eye views of the track in front of the race car as it sped by.

The Formula 1 car is a blur at 200 mph.

This was my first racing event. I haven’t been interested in car racing in general, and know very little about Formula 1 racing. However, I was going to be touring the UK during the dates of the British Grand Prix, so with the goal of seeking out new experiences around the world I bought a ticket along with some English friends.

The British Grand Prix is held every July at the Silverstone Circuit, near the small village of Silverstone, England. My seat was in the grandstand seating area called Woodcote, located on the course right after the sharp hairpin turn designated number 7 on the map below. I had a great view of the sharpest turn on the course, followed by the straightaway before turn number 8.

The racing circuit at Silverstone.

My friends live in Bakewell, in the Peak District, a two hour drive north from Silverstone. Since all of the hotels near the racing circuit are booked many months in advance of the race, we had two choices. First, we could camp in a field near the circuit, which required lots of camping gear and opened us up to the possibilities of getting soaked by rain (this being England after all). Second, we could drive from their house to the racing circuit and back each day. We chose door number two. Although it was four hours round trip in the car, it was the best option.

Formula 1 race car in the straightaway after turn 7 at Silverstone.

The Grand Prix event takes place over three days. I had no idea that there would actually be a lot of car racing going on, not just one big race.

On Friday, the Formula 1 drivers take their cars for practice laps around the circuit. There are two other classes of race cars, called GP2 and GP3. These are older or slightly slower cars that up and coming drivers race before they are ready for the more advanced Formula 1 cars. The GP2 and GP3 cars race around the track in qualifying sessions to determine the starting order of the cars for the GP2 and GP3 races, respectively.

In addition, Porsche sponsors a series of races called Super Cup races. All of the cars in the Super Cup races are identical Porsche 911s. Only the skill of the drivers determines the champions in Super Cup, not any difference in car technology. On Friday the Porsches run their practice laps. (to see other cool Porsches go here)

Close up of a Porsche 911 during the Super Cup race.

On Saturday, the Formula 1 cars race for their qualifying times. The GP2 and GP3 cars compete in a first race for each class. The Porsches hold their qualifying sessions.

On Sunday, the GP2 and GP3 cars competed in their second races (with combined times determining the champion), and the Porsches competed in their race. After much fanfare, including a parachute display by the Royal Air Force (RAF) Falcons jump team, and aerial acrobatics by some RAF Typhoon fighter jets, it was finally time for the big race.

The start of the British Grand Prix at turn 7.

The race course is 3.66 miles around, and the race comprises 52 laps. The entire race takes about an hour and a half to two hours to run. The time is variable because there may be delays in the race due to crashes.

In searching for a particular shirt among multiple souvenir shops, I made the mistake of trying to walk around the outer perimeter of the entire racing circuit after the GP2 race. I kept walking to the next souvenir shop around the course looking for my desired shirt. By the time I got to the halfway point after 45 minutes of walking, I realized I might as well just keep walking around back to my starting point instead of turning around. I barely made it back to my seat in time for the big race.

The local favorite is British racing champion Lewis Hamilton, who drives for the Mercedes team. Every time his car came around our position on the track, all of the fans jumped up and cheered. Hamilton has won the race twice before, and was the favorite this time around.

Driver parade before the British Grand Prix. Lewis Hamilton is at left.

Hamilton was in the pole position when the race started due to having the fastest qualifying lap, but he was passed right at the start by two other drivers. He hung in third place until he stopped for new tires at lap 19. When the other two drivers were forced to change their tires, Hamilton took the lead.

He cruised along comfortably until late in the race when it started to rain. This is summer in England! Despite the rain, Hamilton stayed with faster dry weather tires while other drivers switch to slower wet weather tires. This gave him the advantage he needed, so that when he went into the pit to switch to the wet weather tires, the other drivers couldn’t catch him.

Mercedes team driver Lewis Hamilton, winner of the British Grand Prix.

I never knew how tire changing strategies and deciding when to take pit stops could make the difference between being the champion and having no place on the winner’s podium. As Hamilton crossed the finish line it seemed as if all 120,000 spectators cheered at once for the hometown hero.

The man and woman got into their rental car on a lazy Sunday morning in the hotel zone of Cancun, Mexico. A drive down the coast of the Mayan Riviera was ahead of them. Sunshine, blue sky, warm sand, taco chips and salsa.

Cancun beach view.

Boulevard Kukulkan was nearly empty of cars. Most tourists were sleeping off their margarita induced comas. Hotel vans and taxis sped by the rental car, maximizing their potential of tips by rapidly getting their passengers where they needed to go. The man, however, drove slowly, sticking to the posted 70 kilometers per hour speed limit. He had read about how corrupt the Mexican police were and wanted to obey the law.

After slowing down to take a sharp turn, the man accelerated back up to the speed limit. As he was daydreaming about which beach to go to, the siren came to life and the flashing lights came on. It was the Mexican police.

The beach below the ruins at Tulum.

Obediently, he pulled over and stopped. The police car stopped close by, blocking his potential escape. The policeman in the passenger seat got out of the car, leaving his partner behind the wheel. Inexplicably, another police officer sat in the back seat. This police officer smiled at the man, like it was his fourth birthday, or maybe he had found a winning lottery ticket.

The policeman rattled off a stream of Spanish at the man, who stared blankly back.
“No hablo español,” said the man. “Inglés por favor.”

Deserted beach south of Tulum.

“You’ve been speeding,” said the policeman.
“I don’t think I was. I see that the posted speed is 70 km/h on this road. I was sticking to the speed limit. I even slowed down to take that turn,” said the man.
“The speed limit in this stretch is 40 km/h. You were going faster than that. I am going to have to give you a ticket,” said the policeman in heavily accented English.
“I never saw a sign for 40 km/h.”

The policeman ignored this remark and started writing the ticket.

What you might look like after visiting a Mexican jail.

“Why are the taxis and hotel vans going twice as fast as me, but I am the one being pulled over?” asked the man. This comment was also ignored.

“You will have to go into the city tomorrow and pay this ticket. On the other hand, I can save you the trouble if you pay the fine to me right now,” said the policeman.

“How much is the fine?”
“$150 US dollars.”
“Why isn’t the fine in Mexican pesos?” asked the man.
“Never mind that. Give me $150 US dollars, or I will take your driver’s license. Then you can go to the police station in Cancun tomorrow, pay the fine, and get your license back.” The other two police officers in the car were smirking at the man.

“OK, I’m staying in the area. I’ll go tomorrow to pay the fine,” replied the man.
“If you pay cash to me today, I can reduce the fine a little bit,” said the policeman.
“I’ll give you $40 US dollars.”
“I don’t think that is enough. The fine is $150. I might be able take $125.”
“I only have $40. That’s all I can do right now,” said the man, as he took two twenty dollar bills out of his pocket.

The policeman grabbed the money, and got back into the police car.

“Cheap bastard!” grunted the policeman as the car took off, looking for the next gringo victim.

It was a pleasant day for driving. After my stop in Arles, I was touring around the countryside in the Provence region of southern France. I had stopped for lunch at a country restaurant which I happened upon by chance. It was a Sunday and they were setting up for Sunday brunch. I sat outside on the terrace, making repeated visits to the gourmet buffet until I was stuffed. Everything was amazingly fresh and tasty.

A nice day in Provence.

A few kilometers down the road from the restaurant I drove under a bridge. As I came out the other side I noticed a cascade of water behind me. What was that? A car?

Traveling on the French Autoroutes is similar to driving on other freeways in Europe. The roads are not as nice as the Autobahn in Germany, but better than the Autostradas in Italy. They have lots of tollbooths and the toll charges add up to a lot of baguettes. They also appear to have speed cameras, although I never noticed any on the roads.

NO! Not a Mini again!

I only know this now because I keep getting “administrative charges” showing up on my credit card account from Sixt, the car rental company I used on my France trip. Sixt charges me 18 euros every time they get notified that I did something wrong while renting their car. I’ve received four of these in the past month.

I’m slowly getting these tickets in the mail from the French road authorities. They want 45 euros for each ticket from me at first, escalating to 180 euros each over time. One of the tickets cited me for going 138 km/hr in a 130 km/hr zone. The 130 km/hr speed is the standard speed limit on the Autoroute. My excessive speed of 8 km/hr over the speed limit is approximately 5 mph.

Give me a break! This is on the freeway! Almost everyone was driving faster than me. If they send tickets to all of those drivers, think of the administrative machine and revenue generating/wealth redistribution system they have designed. Those French socialists!

I’m still struggling with my European GPS (go here for a tale of my inadvertent Swiss mountain climbing expedition in a Mini). One time my GPS sent me through the back roads of the French countryside to my next destination, instead of via the Autoroute. It was nice for a while, until I got to a road closed due to construction. I was in the middle of the back of beyond, in terms of the Loire Valley.

To recover from the closed road, the GPS sent me down one lane roads, gravel roads, and farmer’s lanes until eventually (OK, it was actually a couple of hours) I ended up back at a main road. When I looked at the map later, I could have done the whole trip on freeways. I am going to take a sledge hammer to that GPS someday.

(If you want to leave the driving to someone else, such as to and from an airport in Europe, try Blacklane Limousines).

On my way towards Normandy I stopped at a gas station to get something to drink. When I came back out to my car I saw this:

My rented BMW M1 is on the left.

Thanks, dude. You’ve blocked me in. What were you thinking? I can’t even get my car door open!

I was getting steamed. Who parks like that? What an idiot!

I had to wait for the truck driver to come back to his (or her) vehicle. I decided to stand in the way and confront him, silently, because if he knew I was American he would probably let loose a slew of French vulgarities at me.

Typical French road sign.

After ten minutes I saw a young guy in overalls come out of the store. He had a cup of coffee and a candy bar. I planted my feet and took up as much of the sidewalk as I could in front of my car, so as to partially block the path to the truck. He was looking down at his coffee as he walked, until he got a few feet from me. He noticed that I was in the way and looked up, into my eyes.

I gave him my Angry Eyes, pointedly looked at his park job, then stared back at him. I didn’t say a word.

He slightly grinned, smirked, and ducked around me without speaking. He hopped into his truck. I gave him the French single finger salute as he drove away. It made me feel better.

We were barreling down the Autobahn in southern Austria at 170 km/hr (106 mph). I was pushing the little Mini as fast as it would go in order to not be devoured by the bigger Audis and the BMWs. We had left Bolzano, Italy (in search of Oetzi the Iceman) that morning and were heading back to Munich. After surviving the Swiss mountain pass (see Trouble in Switzerland), we had enjoyed several wonderful days in Nice (View of Vieux Ville in Nice), and endured painful road construction on the Italian Autostrada near Milan and Genoa. We were now in the Austrian Alps south of Innsbruck and the views were fabulous.

The Alps near Bolzano, Italy.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” said my daughter, who was crammed into the miniature back seat of the Mini.
“So do I,” said my wife.
“OK, I’ll take the next exit to make a bathroom stop,” I replied.

Excuse me, but I have to ausfahrt!

At the next exit I got off the Autobahn to find a rest stop, gas station, or restaurant where we might find the proper facilities. Instead I found more road construction.

I followed the detour signs and wound the Mini through multiple hairpin turns down a narrow road until we arrived at what looked like a truck stop. At least it used to be a truck stop. Currently all of the buildings were closed and the parking lot was empty except for a couple of trucks.

A drive through the Alps.

“You two are going to have to hold it. Everything looks closed. Maybe it’s because of the road construction. Let’s get out of here.”

I drove around the area looking for a way out and back to the Autobahn. We couldn’t go out the way we came in because it was a one way temporary road. After several minutes of searching I determined the only way out of the area was through a gate. I pulled up to the gate and checked the control box. Everything was in German. It looked like I needed to insert a special card into the machine in order for the gate to go up and let us out. This I did not have. I am not a trucker on the Milan to Munich route.

I backed out of the gate lane about 50 meters and turned the car off. We had three choices. Drive the wrong way up the narrow one way road with the hairpin turns and gamble that we wouldn’t run into a semi, wait for one of the sleeping truckers to wake up and need his espresso, or ram the gate with the Mini.

Door #1 sounded too risky to me. I had no confidence in the Mini’s ability to withstand a head-on collision with a semi. Option C also seemed like a bad idea, especially since it was a rental car and I would have to pay for the damages. It would have to be Plan B. We would have to wait it out.

The clear mountain air of the Alps.

Luckily, it wasn’t long before one of the trucks lumbered toward the gate. As the truck reached the gate, I snuck in behind it. As the barrier went up, I followed the truck through the gate to freedom.

The road took a convoluted route up, down, and around but eventually sent us back onto the Autobahn. I waited to get off the Autobahn until I found an official rest stop. The ladies did their business and on we went to Munich.

Several months later I saw a charge from Sixt, the German car rental company, on my credit card statement. It was a mystery to me, since it had been a long time since I rented the Mini. After some communications with Sixt, I learned that the Austrian and Italian roadway bureaucracies had collectively determined that I had defrauded them of a toll fee. According to the Italians, I had gotten on the Italian Autostrada through a toll booth and never exited. I had vanished from the Autostrada without paying the toll.

The Italians told the Austrians, who in true Teutonic efficiency then tracked the Mini to Sixt. I was billed for the missing toll fee, an extra fee for losing the toll slip, a fine for driving on the road without paying the toll, and administrative fees for the various agencies to handle all of this business. It totaled $184.

I didn’t even think about disputing these charges. I would lose any effort to battle the European bureaucracy (for example, see the Swiss Train Chief). It was an expensive bathroom stop, and the bladders stayed full throughout.